


A Study In Ink

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post Reichenbach AU, Sherlolly - Freeform, Tattoo!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 07:50:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12338493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: Post Reichenbach AU. Every time he comes back, there’s more ink on his body. He says it’s to make up for the ink on his ledger, a way to hold onto his sense of self, his sanity, to keep from becoming a monster as he hunts the monsters down. But they both know it’s so much more than that.





	1. Apis Mellifura

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to nocturnias (aka sherlolly on tumblr) and asteraceaeblue for their input into this story.

_[Honeybee on the inside of his right wrist with the Latin name above it, black and yellow with black words, done with a delicate realism.]_

She can't help staring at the yellow-and-black tattoo so neatly inked on the inside of his right wrist. It's not large, perhaps the length of his thumb, and beautifully rendered with the Latin name just above it. " _Apis Mellifera_ ," she says, reading that name aloud. "Can I ask…"

"The contact insisted," he interrupts her as he eases back into his shirt. He'd removed it so she could stitch up a minor injury on his upper back, caused by a stray bullet after his last surveillance mission had gone pear shaped. Damn Mycroft and his interfering MI6 agents; the sniper had got away and all he had to show for weeks of work was the wound on his back and the tattoo on his wrist. "Wouldn't talk to me unless we met at a specific tattoo parlour in Prague. Made me get the tattoo so it 'wouldn't look suspicious'." He snorted. "As if there was anything normal about two people getting tattoos in the same room at the same time whilst speaking in whispers in a foreign language. Idiot." A dead idiot now; the sniper had taken him out after he'd made the supposedly professional MI6 agent who'd been shadowing them.

None of which he tells Molly, of course. She worries about him enough as it is. At least this time he has something to distract her from badgering him for details he refuses to give.

"Why a honeybee, Sherlock?"

He shrugs, then winces at the pain the movement causes. "I've always been fascinated by bees, even thought about studying Apiology at one point," he says before she can voice her concern for his injury. "Who knows, maybe I'll retire to the Sussex Downs one day and take it up then."

He offers her a tired grin, and she smiles back even though he can still feel the anxiety coming off her in waves. "I suppose I'll have it lasered off eventually." He can do it any time he likes, but he feels curiously possessive of the artwork now adorning his body. He'd never considered getting a tattoo before, but this bee, so meticulously detailed and exquisitely rendered…he finds he wants to keep it.

As if reading his thoughts, Molly speaks those very words. "No, you should keep it." When he gives her a sharp look, she shrugs awkwardly. "I-I mean, if you want to," she stammers. "It's nice, it suits you."

He turns his wrist this way and that, studying the drawing inked into his flesh from various angles. "Yes, I suppose it does," he finally says, flashing her another grin and a cheeky wink. "Maybe I will keep it, get a few others to keep it company."

She giggles, and he feels her tension dissipating – and, surprisingly enough, some of his own as well. He's been 'dead' for six weeks now, utterly focused on bringing down the remains of Moriarty's international crime syndicate, and this is the first time he's been back in London. He knows he surprised Molly by showing up at her flat, but he also knows it's the one safe place he has here. He can't go anywhere John or Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson might see him, and he has to keep his contact with Mycroft limited as well – although that's not much of a hardship.

"Not sure my mum would approve," he says nonchalantly. He knows Molly's met his parents, under the pretence of personally offering her condolences when they were 'too grief-stricken' to attend his funeral.

"Your dad'll probably like it, though," Molly replies with a grin. "And you know what? Your mum probably will too. Get some flowers inked near the bee and tell her you did it to remind you of her."

"She does love her garden," Sherlock agrees with a faint answering grin. The grin disappears as he starts to button up his shirt. "Thanks," he says gruffly, the word still odd coming from his lips, especially sincerely offered as it is today. "I know you didn't sign up for any of this."

Molly interrupts him with a hand on his arm. Startled at the unexpected contact, he looks into her brown eyes, so fierce and serious yet tender and warm at the same time. "Sherlock, when I asked you what you needed that night, I didn't put a time limit on it. If you need me, I'm here."

She means it, just as much as she meant it that night; he can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. How he's earned such fierce devotion, he has no idea, especially from a woman who once believed she didn't count, that she didn't matter to him. She believes in him as strongly as John does, is just as loyal and protective of him.

"Why?" he asks, needing to hear her response. "Why are you always here for me, Molly? When I've been so awful to you, when you didn't even think I...that you counted?" he hastily changes the word at the last second. She must already know he cares about her, surely?

"Because I believe in the words of John Donne," she replies. He knows his expression is blank, the name unfamiliar – deleted? – because she rushes to explain. "You know, 'no man is an island, entire of itself'? The poem? Didn't you have to learn it in primary school?"

He shrugs. "Possibly. Poetry is nothing but sentimental rubbish – but I can see why you might like that one," he adds grudgingly. And he does; Molly is also sentimental but 'rubbish' isn't a word he would ever associate with her. Except when it comes to her fashion sense, although he's finally learned not to comment on that. Nor on her looks or figure; that ridiculous Christmas party taught him that much, at least. Not a lesson he's cared to delete, even if he's never examined the reasons for not doing so.

Molly continues speaking, oblivious to his sudden consternation. "So you need friends, Sherlock, even if you don't think so. I mean, you've got John and Greg…"

"Who?" he interrupts her, his expression blank again – this time on purpose. He knows perfectly well who Greg is but pretending to forget the man's name is a habit he's sure he'll never break.

"Greg," she repeats, a bit louder this time, as if she thinks he just didn't hear her. "But yeah, I mean, you jumped off a building to save their lives, and Mrs. Hudson, and I guess I'm not close enough to call you a friend but I do think of you that way. Which is fine, if you don't," she hurriedly adds. It's as if all her rambling words have suddenly jammed up in her throat; her cheeks turn pink and she drops her eyes to her nervously-twisting hands. "I know you said I count and I can't tell you how honored I am that you trust me…"

He silences her with a kiss, unplanned and brief, but lingering long enough on her lips to keep from being mistaken for simple expediency. "Molly, you're my friend," he tells her when he pulls back. His hands are on her shoulders and she is staring up at him with wide, wide eyes. "You count and I trust you and we're friends." He repeats the words firmly, willing her to believe him. Because it's the truth, and because he finds he wants her to know, before he leaves her flat and disappears from London yet again, that she is important to him.

How important, he doesn't let himself ponder. At least as important as John, if comparisons must be made. If she presses him for an answer.

But she doesn't, simply smiles and tiptoes up to give him a soft kiss on the cheek, very near his mouth but not quite touching. "We're friends," she agrees with a dazzling smile. He ponders the way he once told her her lips were too small without lipstick and mentally kicks himself for being such a self-absorbed ass.

Before he can blurt any of that out he takes a step back. "Thank you," he says, and she nods. He feels her gaze on him even after the door closes behind him.

The bee on his wrist itches like mad and the bullet graze burns but neither of those inconveniences haunt him the way the feel of her lips beneath his does.


	2. Papaver somniferum

__

_[Poppy flowers on his right forearm on the inside, right above the honeybee, red and black ink, about 2 inches wide by 3 ½ inches long, clearly made by a different artist]_

"Poppies?"

Molly's eyebrow is raised as he shows off his newest tattoo. "What?" he says, more than a little defensively. "You said my mum would probably like it if I had a flower, that it would remind her of her garden."

"Yeah, but I doubt she grows opium poppies in her garden," Molly points out tartly.

He shrugs, feigning indifference. Molly knows about his more unsavory habits: his stints in rehab, his battles with addiction (and his denial of being an addict, his insistence that he's  _just a user_ ). She knows about the lists, too, just as she knows not to ask him if this newest tattoo is a sign she should be checking for a different sort of needle mark on the insides of his elbows.

Instead she examines his bare torso for signs of infection around the previous wound she'd stitched up for him. She declares him healthy and he grins at her before sitting down and pulling his shoes off.

She stops him when he starts to remove his trousers – a pair of seedy blue jeans a size too large for him, deliberately so – by putting her hand on his wrist. She's blushing as she demands to know what he thinks he's doing.

"Got another scratch I need you to look at," he says casually, and her brow creases with worry as she removes her hand and lets him finish pulling down the jeans. He can feel her gaze on him, knows that she's trying very hard to keep her eyes from wandering, and feels a slight stirring in an area of particular interest to her; what the fuck? He hasn't allowed himself to feel any sort of sexual attraction to anyone since The Woman (not that he acted on it, not right away, and for some reason thinking of her when he's with Molly feels wrong). To let his body overrule his brain like this is betrayal of the basest sort.

He retreats into his mind palace as Molly kneels down before him, her attention fully occupied by the nasty gash in his left calf. He barely notices as she peels the blood-encrusted bandage away and applies an antiseptic to the abraded flesh, too busy cataloging old case files in order to keep his blood flowing where it should be rather than pooling in his groin.

She looks up at him when she's done rebandaging the wound, balancing herself with one hand on his opposite knee, and he can feel his eyes widening at the sight of her mouth so close to his...near his...fuck it, _inches from his cock._  His traitorous, getting-harder-by-the-second cock. Which is only barely covered by his cotton briefs; all Molly has to do is look down and she'll see…

Fortunately for his peace of mind, she keeps her eyes on his as she pushes herself up, patting him on the shoulder and declaring his injury as clean as she can manage. "You really should go to a proper doctor," she chides him with a frown. "Are you sure Mycroft can't…"

"Too dangerous," he says, turning his back on her and pulling up his trousers. He keeps talking and moving, both to distract her from his inexplicable erection and to give said erection time to settle itself back to its normal, far more placid state. "It's barely safe for me to keep popping in and out of London like this…"

Uh-oh. He's said too much that time, given her another reason to worry about him. Because of course she won't take his words to mean that he's putting  _her_ in danger, and so it proves when she speaks. "Sherlock! If it's not safe for you, then why? Stay away, for God's sake! I mean, I'll worry either way, but if I'd known it was dangerous for you to come here…"

She's wringing her hands and blinking her eyes very rapidly, on the verge of tears. He's yet to see her actually cry: not during the entire faked suicide, not afterwards, not even when he was blatantly awful to her before that. He finds he doesn't want to see her cry now, so he snaps at her instead. "Don't be stupid, Molly; I have to have someone I trust to look after me when I'm injured. Would you rather I bled to death just because I didn't want to risk coming to London?"

"If you're ever in danger of bleeding to death, I'd hope you'd have the sense to hightail it to the nearest A&E!" she snaps back, brown eyes flashing with anger now.

Good. Near-crisis averted.  _Two_ near-crises averted, actually, since his cock has decided to settle back down again. Thank  _God_. "Duly noted," he says as he stands up, preparing to leave.

"You can stay, if you'd like. Sleep here," Molly offers unexpectedly. "If you don't have a deadline to meet, or something."

He considers the offer. He should say no, head out, make his way back to the Continent, but the idea of sleeping here is strangely appealing. His next contact isn't until Friday, in southern Spain, and he can do research here as well as an anonymous hotel room. "All right," he says, eyes flickering briefly over her as he makes his way to her sofa and commandeers her laptop. "Don't worry about feeding me, I ate yesterday."

She doesn't listen to him, of course, and an hour later he finds himself munching on spring rolls and some rice dish from the Chinese take-away down the block from her flat.

When he leaves the next morning, having spent the night in her bed while she took the sofa (far too short for his lanky form and the idea of bed-sharing was too alarmingly appealing to be considered), he's well rested, well fed, and full of energy.

In spite of his intentions otherwise, he suspects - no, he knows - he'll be back again at some point.

Molly's flat has become one of his official bolt-holes.


	3. Society of Toxicologic Pathology

__

_[Society of Toxicologic Pathology symbol, microscope in a triangle set inside the outer circle of the logo, dark purple with white details, roughly the size of Molly's palm, set just above the internal pelvic bone on his right side]_

He's not even injured this time. Molly barely has time to rake him with anxious eyes before he's shaking his head, impatient to get to the point of this latest, surreptitious visit to her flat. He lifts up his t-shirt to show her his latest acquisition. Her gasp of surprise is expected; what's less expected - downright unexpected, were he being honest - is how she bends almost double and drops a reverent kiss to the bit of flesh it covers. It's drawn just above his right hip, right where the waistband of his low-slung jeans currently sit: a dark purple microscope with the Society's name encircling it in the same shade. Molly's been a member of the Society of Toxicologic Pathology for seven years now, but he can tell by the way she reacts that she had no idea that he was aware of that fact.

"You got this for me? Because of...me?"

She's kneeling at his feet in order to study it more closely, and he swallows, hard, at the sight of her upturned face, her eyes bright with what he suspects are unshed tears. Why tears? His mother does this too, gets all shiny-eyed when he (admittedly rarely) does something...sentimental...in her presence. Unlike with his mother, however, his body reacts in a very visceral, very male manner at the raw emotion in Molly's eyes: he gets hard. Very hard. Just like the last time he saw her kneeling in front of him, and something inside him snaps. Reaching down, he grabs her wrists, yanks her to her feet and kisses her.

She makes a surprised squeak when their mouths mash together, her eyes wide. He has no idea if she closes them or not because his snap shut as physical sensations overwhelm him. The softness of her lips. The warmth of her body as he pulls her close. The hardness of his cock. The smell of her hair, everything, everything just perfect. As he'd always known it would be, deep in the back of his mind.

This has been building between them for years even if he's tried his best to ignore it, to file it away, to close it up in a box with all his other inconvenient urges and feelings. But he let John Watson into his life and suddenly had a friend. Then Irene Adler came sauntering in to remind him that yes, sex still existed no matter how much he tried pretend it didn't, and now Molly isn't just a convenient, tractable _lab assistant_  (not that was ever her job title, not since he's known her) but is instead something more. A friend, like John. A sexual creature, like Irene. Someone who sees him and knows him and yet somehow, inconceivably, still wants him.

Still  _loves_ him. He won't flinch away from the truth, not now.

He's heard the saying _warts and all_  but never really paid it much mind. Now that it applies to him, he gets it. He doesn't deserve her love, her loyalty, her fierce, quiet commitment to being there for him, but he accepts it. Craves it, even, just as he now admits he craves her. Not just this, the hard, hot kisses, their hands tearing away clothing, naked bodies joining together, but all of her. Emotions are messy, they're dangerous and detrimental to The Work but right now he doesn't give a fuck.

Their bodies grapple and slide together, slick with sweat, her sweet, sweet hands on his cock, his lips on her right nipple, his fingers digging into her upper arms hard enough to leave bruises neither of them care about.

If he's going to do this, he's going to do this wholeheartedly, no reservations, and he needs her to understand what he's asking of her even as he lays her down to the hardwood floor of her sitting room. "You said I could have you," he bites out as he raises himself above her, aching to dive deep inside her hot, welcoming cunt but wanting her to hear him first. "If I wanted you, I could have you. And I do, I want you."

She nods, lips parted on some words he knows he'll want to hear eventually - agreement, permission, absolution - but he rushes on before she can speak. "Not just want you, Molly, not just this." He releases one arm and gestures at their naked forms. "All of you. I know I have no right, that there's the very real possibility that one of these times I won't come back or you'll get tired of waiting for me…"

She silences him with an upward lunge of her body, her mouth hard against his, swallowing his words and silently reminding him that now isn't the time for talk. "Make love to me, Sherlock," she demands when they pull apart in order to remember how to breathe. "Fuck me hard and then tell me whatever it is you need to tell me. I promise, I'll listen to it all but we both know that I'll always be here for you." Her eyes are fierce and yet somehow tender at the same time. "Always, always."

So he does. He does everything she demands of him. As he enters her, any signs of timid, quiet Molly Hooper vanish; in his arms is a woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to take it from him. He comes fast the first time, too fast for her to reach her own climax, but makes up for it by immediately going down on her.

She tries to protest, squirming beneath his mouth, tugging on his hair, but he ignores her, holding her thighs in an iron grip as he dips his head between her legs and caresses her with his tongue. His semen is dribbling out of her cunt but he doesn't care; it's not the first time he's tasted his own cum and he doubts it'll be the last, not if he and Molly are going to actually make a go of it. He glances up at her, gives her a wicked smile, then buries his mouth against her hot, slick flesh, putting his tongue to better use than he ever has before.

Molly's sighs and groans as he works her are music to his ears; he makes a mental reminder to compose something just for her the next time he gets his hands on a violin.

For now, he's quite happy to play her body, to hear her moans and cries as she comes closer and closer and finally tumbles over the edge.

Afterwards he helps her up, his arm around her shoulders as they stumble to the bathroom for a quick scrub-up before making their way to her bed. It's a double, barely, and far too small for the room in her spacious flat, and he makes a mental note to have Mycroft's PA 'Anthea' find something more appropriate. Something big enough for the two of them to share since he tends to sprawl when he sleeps.

He mentions that to her later, when they're lying close together, his voice a sleepy murmur.

"Make it cherry," she replies, just as sleepily. "To match the wardrobe." She yawns, then giggles a bit. "And my jumper, the one you hate."

"Don't hate it," he mumbles, curling on his side and engulfing her in his embrace. "I'll prove it, too."

The next time he returns, she shows off the new cherry wood sleigh bed and matching side tables in her bedroom - and he shows her the new pair of cherries tattooed on the inside of his right thigh.


	4. Doctor and Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to mae-jones for helping me brainstorm this chapter!

__

_[Rod of Asclepius with a rifle instead of a rod, right upper arm below the shoulder, four inches in length and about an inch wide, black ink with white details.]_

Two months later he's on his way to see her, to decompress from his latest mission and to show off his newest bit of ink. He's particularly proud of this one, as it's the first he's entirely designed himself. A risk, since it's more likely the tattoo artist will remember a custom order, but one he feels justified in making, since he's never gone to the same tattooist in the same city twice.

He had this one done in New York City, his only trip so far to the United States - at least since childhood holidays with his family to dreary places like Oklahoma and Indiana. New York City is much more to his taste, although no city can ever compare to London. He even took the time to see a concert at Carnegie Hall. An even more extravagant self-indulgence than a custom tattoo, but how could he not when the London Philharmonic was playing?

He puts such trivia aside as he arrives at her flat and taps on the door. She's home, he knows she is since he always checks her schedule whenever he slips into London like this. On a day like today - rainy, a bit chilly - she's not likely to have stopped anywhere on her way home from Barts, unless she'd utterly run out of something essential, like tinned cat food. Or biscuits.

He hears her muffled voice from within, advising him to 'wait just a sec, on my way!' and bounces impatiently on his toes. When the door opens and he sees her smiling face, he can't help but smile back before he leans down and kisses her.

"Sherlock!" she hisses after the kiss comes to a very satisfactory conclusion. "Someone might see!" But her cheeks are pink and she's smiling even as she hustles them further inside and makes sure the door is shut and locked behind them.

He shrugs and shoves off the hood of his jacket. "So they'll think you've got a boyfriend, so what? I doubt anyone would believe it's me come back from the dead."

"Philip might," she mutters. At his blank stare, she adds, "Anderson. He's - well, he's gone a bit...nutters since your 'death'. Tells anyone who'll listen that you're still alive, that you had help, has the wildest theories about how you did it - none of them close to the truth," she hastens to assure him as he frowns at the revelation. It's heartening that so many people still believe in him despite Moriarty's well-crafted lies, but the idea of anyone thinking he's still alive - even an idiot like Anderson - makes him uneasy.

Molly's sigh breaks into his thoughts as he follows her into her spacious sitting room. "Poor John threatened to take out an order of protection till Greg stepped in."

He nods, feeling an annoying twinge of guilt at this. Who knew Anderson would take his demise so hard? "I'm sure Mycroft has it under control," is all he says, not bothering to ask who 'Greg' is. The prickle of guilt he feels about John is harder to dismiss, but he manages through a combination of long practice and sheer pig-headedness.

John is a soldier. He'll survive just fine until Sherlock can come back home for good and take things up where they'd left off. Well, perhaps, with a few changes… He smiles and goes to kiss Molly again, but she holds him off with one hand on his chest, her eyes large and serious and damn, he's not going to get away this time without talking about...things.

No, not 'things'.

 _People_.

He knows he's right when she gives a soft sigh. "Sherlock, it's really been hard on everyone, you know that, don't you?"

He huffs out an impatient breath and flings himself into one of the brightly colored wingback chairs sat on either side of her fireplace. "Coffee?" he half-demands, not answering her question and knowing he's skating on thin ice by doing so. She's willing to do anything for him - she's more than proven that - but she's also lost much of her timidity around him, especially since they've become lovers.

"Black, two sugars, I know," she says, but the teasing tone she's trying for falls flat, and her shoulders are tense as she turns and walks away from him.

He drums his fingers on the arm of the chair, shifting uncomfortably, not sure what to do. Should he follow her, offer to help, or let her have some space before she tries to talk to him again? Because she will, of course she will; she tenacious, she's stubborn...and she's right. He slumps a bit as he recognizes that fact. Everyone is suffering while he plays knight errant, her most of all because she's the only one burdened with his secret. Well yes, Mycroft and his parents know it as well, but it's not the same thing. They don't have to see Lestrade come into the morgue or watch John doing whatever it is he's doing now that he's on his own again, or - apparently - listen to Anderson's mad theories about how he faked his death.

He's fucking this up, just as he'd always known he would, but he doesn't do relationships and she of all people should know that. Just as he's decided that this visit is a mistake, that he should just leave, she calls to him from the kitchen. "Help me make it?" she asls, and he finds himself on his feet and joining her in her spacious kitchen, standing next to her and working the grinder as she pours out the beans.

"I have new ink," he blurts out once the coffee's brewing. "Would you like to...can I show it to you?" He doesn't know why he's suddenly shy about taking off his shirt in front of her, but guesses it has something to do with the way she stopped him kissing her earlier. He doesn't want her to get the wrong idea, that he's trying to distract her with sex - which, yes, he'd very much like to do, but he won't. Well, he won't take deliberate advantage, but if she changes her mind, he certainly won't stop her.

She tilts her head consideringly, then her lips curl up in a very small smile and she nods. "No injuries this time?" she asks belatedly, her eyes flicking over him in professional appraisal.

He bites back a snarky comment about her usual patients being examined whilst horizontal rather than vertical and instead pulls his hoodie over his head and drops it on the counter. She tsks but he ignores the hint and leaves it there, hesitating only a fraction of a second before pulling his faded grey vest over his head and piling it on top of the hoodie.

She studies it, stroking her fingers along the sleek black lines; the tattooist really did an outstanding job of meeting his exacting design requirements. Someday, when it's safe, he thinks he'll go back and commission another piece. Maybe. When all this is over and he can take back his life. "Like it?" he asks as Molly continues to study it.

She nods. "I do." Her eyes meet his. "It's meant to be John, right? Rod of Asclepius?" She squints a bit and studies it closer. "But with a rifle?"

Sherlock shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Well, he was a soldier as well as a doctor, so…" He shrugs again. "I don't suppose he'll be too upset at me for altering the classic medical symbol like this."

She offers him a sad smile. "He'll be pleased, when you're home for good," she says softly. "He misses you, Sherlock. They all do. It's been hard. John's back in therapy, did I tell you that last time? And Greg was put on administrative leave while they looked into the cases you assisted on."

"But none of the convictions were overturned," he interrupts her, leaning back against her stone countertop near the coffee maker, the familiar aroma filling his senses as she opens a cabinet and reaches up to grab a pair of mugs. He eyes her chest as she strains up on her tip-toes. "Mycroft has been keeping me abreast of developments." He smirks as she gives him a  _look_ , one that says  _did I really just hear you make a tiddy joke?_

As she sets the cups on the counter, she lets out another soft sigh. He pulls her close, lets her rest her head on his chest as she murmurs, "Well, that's good of him. I just wish…"

He knows what she wishes; he wishes it, too, that he could be done with it all and just come back to London to stay. He needs to relearn it, to breathe it in for more than a few scant days at a time every few months.

But not yet. There's still work to do, and today is just a quick stop-over to show Molly his latest bit of ink and to find some solace in her body. No, not just her body, but her entire, lovely, amazing,  _miraculous_ self. If it was just a warm body he needed, there are plenty of those available without risking a trip to London. Men, women, both...he's never lacked for willing sexual partners even -  _especially_ \- when he's entirely uninterested in taking advantage of what they have to offer.

With a feeling akin to shame he remembers how Molly was once one of those people - people he has and continues to ruthlessly exploit for their usefulness to him.

 _Never again,_  he swears as he pulls her up for a tender kiss. He'll  _never_ treat her that way again.

And he'll find a way - a very  _different_ way - to make things up to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and John and yes, even Anderson, once he's home for good. He reassures her of that, and she nods her acceptance and apparently that satisfies her need to talk about things because she kisses him. Tenderness swiftly turns to hunger, and his last coherent thought is that it's a good thing her coffee maker has a timer and will shut itself off after a while, because neither of them are interested in hot beverages at the moment.

As they lay in each other's arms, passion temporarily sated, he reiterates his intentions. "I'll find a way, Molly. I'll make it up to them all." Then he cracks a smile and adds, "Or maybe I'll just pop on a disguise and do a dramatic reveal, like a guest on some rubbish telly show. Wear a fake moustache and some eyeglasses and an outrageous French accent, what do you think?"

He waggles his eyebrows to show he's not serious and she giggles and punches him lightly in the shoulder and he mock-wrestles her back under the covers and they spend the rest of the evening (and a good part of the night) just being together.

The next morning he slips out of bed and takes a quick shower while she slumbers on. The sun is barely above the horizon and she has a good two hours before she has to be up - mid-shift all this week - and he is loath to waken her. So he finishes up in the bathroom, then heads back to place a soft kiss on her forehead. She smiles in her sleep, murmurs something unintelligible, and rolls onto her side.

"I'll make it right," he promises softly, flexing his arm as if he can feel the tattoo weighing down his skin. "To all of them - and to you."

Then he leaves, not knowing when he'll be able to make it back again.

But he makes sure to feed Toby first, so the little pest doesn't interrupt Molly's much needed rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to sempaiko for drawing up my design for the "John" tattoo. Didn't she do a lovely job?


	5. Silver Fox

_[Handcuffs on the inside of his left elbow, metallic silver.]_

He's more than a block away when he realizes something's wrong. There's a man lurking outside Molly's flat, to all appearances just having an early morning smoke on the pavement, but Sherlock knows as soon as he sees him that he's there for a reason. Either he's waiting for Sherlock himself to show, or he's waiting for Molly to get home from her overnight shift at Bart's.

Either way, he's a problem.

Sherlock continues shuffling along in his persona of a homeless junkie making his way to a crackhouse to hole up in for the day. The man ignores him as he weaves past him with a mumbled 'sorry, 'scuse me', continue smoking his (expensive, foreign) cigarette as Sherlock passes him. He tenses, waiting for an attack that doesn't come; when he stops a few meters further down the street, pretending to stumble over his shoelaces, he does a quick recon and sees the man glancing impatiently at his watch.

He's waiting for Molly, then. Knowing she won't leave the Tube station for another half-hour, Sherlock straightens back up and ambles down the cross-street. Once out of sight of the Pavement Lurker, he lengthens his stride and digs his burner phone out of his pocket. The number he dials isn't Mycroft's, but one belonging to one of the more reliable members of his Homeless Network. "Wiggins," he says when the other man answers. "I need you and few bruisers at this address in ten minutes." He rattles off Molly's address, waits for Wiggins to recite it back, then rings off and shoves the phone back into his pocket.

Ten minutes later, give or take thirty seconds, Wiggins shows up with a pair of toughs who could have been sent by central casting. Stereotypes or not, they're exactly what he wants to see. He has them in place within five minutes, while Wiggins huddles nervously at his shoulder. "Is the missus in danger?" he whispers, sounding more anxious for her than himself.

"She's not the missus and yes, I believe she is," Sherlock replies, barely moving his lips as he speaks, his eyes glued to the thug on Molly's doorstep. In fifteen minutes she'll arrive, and he intends for this to be over with well before then.

Later, when he mentally retraces every step he's taken (and about to take) he'll see the things he's currently (and will be) missing: the color of the man's hair, the shape and size of his hands, chin, eyes...and he and Molly will laugh about it. Eventually.

But that's later. That's after Wiggins has 'accidentally' jostled the man's shoulder, causing them both to stagger off balance. After Wiggins has jabbed the man with a fast-acting sedative, then performed a passable imitation of Concerned Citizen Helping A Bloke Out when the stranger collapses to the pavement. The two thugs obediently appear, hoist their victim to his feet, and 'help' him stagger to the small alley where Sherlock still awaits them.

He times them with one part of his mind; eighteen seconds, not bad, although he probably could have done it himself in about twelve. The important thing is that no one's raised an immediate alarm, and even if someone saw the pantomime just enacted, became suspicious and telephoned the police, they'll be long gone before they're in any danger of being found out.

He realizes his mistake as soon as he opens the man's wallet. "Bugger," he says with some force as he sits back on his heels. He digs into his pocket and hands Wiggins a wad of cash. "Thanks, all set now," he says, returning his attention to the man lying in front of him. "Shit."

"E's related to the missus, ain't 'e?" Wiggins asks shrewdly, taking in all the details that now jump out to Sherlock's eyes, unmisted by the suspicion and paranoia with which he's been forced to live for the past...has it truly only been nine months?

He scrubs a tired hand over his face. "Fuck," he mutters, annoyed with himself. It's stupid that he's come to London in the first place, with no injuries to be fixed up and a string of leads to follow up in the Netherlands. But he's missed Molly, quite desperately, needs to see her, needs her to understand his newest bit of ink. He rubs at the inside of his left arm and wonders if the newest tattoo is as much a mistake as the current situation. A sign that he needs to get this bloody war on Moriarty's leftover criminal empire over and done with...

"So," Wiggins says, his tentative voice interrupting Sherlock's increasingly depressed thoughts. "We gonna make it look like a mugging? Bash his 'ead a bit so's no one looks for the the puncture?" He makes a syringe-depressing motion with his hand. "Since 'e never saw you, you're safe enough."

Sherlock frowns, although the idea is actually a pretty decent one. "Yes, but someone might put the finger on you or your two associates," he points out.

Wiggins shrugs. "Wouldn't be the first time I ended up in the nick. Mr. 'olmes c'n always bail me out if I do get caught, yeah?"

Mycroft has certainly done so in the past, when Wiggins got in trouble doing work for his troublesome younger brother. "Yes, fine, do it," he says.

"An' even if we do get caught, I fink we'll still be in less trouble 'n you will be when you tell the Missus about all this," Wiggins adds with a grin.

Sherlock scowls at him. "Who says I'm going to tell her?"

He ignores Wiggins' smirk at not being corrected this time, but it's harder to ignore the knowing look in his eyes. "Can't be lyin' to the Missus," Wiggins says, as if it's obvious. Which of course it is. "Not about important stuff like this."

He turns back to the unconscious man, directing his associates to help him stage the fake mugging, as if Sherlock wasn't even there.

After a moment's hesitation, he leaves them to it and makes his way back to Molly's flat, wishing he could just delete everything that happened here today. It would certainly give him plausible deniability, and it's unlikely Molly will ever talk to Wiggins, but…

But.

Wiggins is right, damn him.

Molly is going to be royally pissed off.

**oOo**

"Let me get this straight," Molly says slowly. "The reason my cousin Stephen ended up in the A&E wasn't because of a random mugging, but because you thought he was some leftover Moriarty thug waiting for me to get home so he could attack me?"

"Or kidnap you," Sherlock replies, drumming restless fingers against his thigh. He's lounging on her sofa as if he hadn't a care in the world, but she can see right through him. He's nervous, he's worried, he's waiting for her to blow up at him.

Can't disappoint the man, can she? Of course not. "Sherlock," she exclaims as she stalks toward him. "You just can't DO things like that!" She jabs him in the chest with one finger. He bats it away with a scowl, then rubs his chest in an exaggerated motion, as if she'd stabbed him or something.

She rolls her eyes; his scowl deepens. She remains standing, hands now on her hips, giving him her best disapproving look...and then dissolves into giggles when he grabs her and pulls her down on top of him. "You git," she grumbles, as best one can whilst laughing. "You absolute wanker! Stephen's not my favorite person, but he's still family!" She smacks him on the arm, but with absolutely zero force behind the playful blow. "I appreciate your looking out for me, but maybe next time you can find a less potentially dangerous way to do so?"

"He's fine, barely even concussed," he scoffs, seeming far more interested in removing her clothing than continuing the conversation. "And now you don't even have to endure sharing a cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits with him just so he can brag about how well his life is going - well," he amends with a rather evil grin, "how well it's been going till now."

"True," Molly concedes, but stops him unbuttoning her shirt by laying a hand on his.

"Problem?" he asks with a pout.

"Not with me, but I just wanted to make sure...no injuries this time? Nothing to patch up?"

He shakes his head. "Nope," he replies, popping the p in that ridiculously obnoxious manner he has when he's feeling pleased with himself. "Nothing new - well," he corrects himself, leaning back to tug his faded grey hoodie off, "-only this."

He offers his bared forearm with a flourish, and she studies the new tat.

"Well, I don't have to ask who  _that_ represents," she says with a grin. "Are you sure you don't want to have 'Gavin' inked underneath it?"

Sherlock grins back. "Don't you mean Graham?" he counters, and suddenly they're both giggling like idiots.

"Or Gary!" Molly gasps out, her giggles intensifying.

"Godfrey?" Sherlock suggests when he has the breath to do so.

Molly snorts. "Gilderoy!" she exclaims, knowing full well he won't get the reference but not caring. "Or Galaha-mmmmm!"

He kisses her, again and again, pulling her close and murmuring some very nice things about her body and he would love a better look at it, right now, thank you very much and shall we adjourn the milady's boudoir?

Adjourn they do, for a delightful interlude that involves very little talking and great deal of strenuous physical activity.

He does make note of the new furniture in her room, the cherry wood, the cheerful yellow bedding with its border of bright pink and purple flowers, but is far more interested in admiring her body and makes sure she enjoys every second of their time together.

Afterwards, lying tangled together in her bed, Molly's head resting on his chest, her fingers trace the shape of the handcuffs. "Why here, on the inside of your arm?"

"It's a reminder of the first time we met," he answers. "When I was a strung out junkie and he was the only person to see past that, to recognize the potential I was fighting so hard to hide. Every time I think about using again, I want to have to confront that memory head on."

Molly nods, her fingers lightly grazing the small white scars beneath the fresh ink. "And have you been? Thinking about it?"

"It's never far from my mind," he admits quietly. "But whenever I get close," he shrugs. "I go for a different kind of needle and I think about you, how disappointed you'd be."

Then he squints at her, leans over and examines the flowery border of her duvet before looking back at her. "Wait...poppies?"

"Yes, poppies," Molly replies. Her tone - and expression - are defiant. "To match." She runs her fingers along the flowers tattooed on his forearm. "I figured if it was important to you, then it was important to me." She shrugs, as if it's of no import, but he knows better.

"I will never ever come to the end of the mystery of you, Molly Hooper," he declares, not bothering to hide how moved he is.

They kiss, and cuddle, and make love one more time before she drifts into sleep and he contemplates his next move in the ongoing battle to rid the world of Moriarty's influence once and for all.

After he's gone, Molly receives a phone call from her very confused Cousin Stephen, asking if she knows anything about the bouquet of poppies he received in hospital, with a card that just read, "Sorry."

She proclaims her ignorance, but smiles to herself after she hangs up the phone.

She'll never come to the end of the mystery of the man she loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your wonderful reviews. I know this chapter was a bit of a mess but I hope you enjoy it anyway. Getting close to the end!


	6. Freak

**Six Weeks Later - France**

He hears her breath catch and knows she's seen it. Not that he tries to hide it from her – hard to do with his shirt off – but he curses himself for not explaining it before letting her work on the cuts and bruises which mar his back. He struggles to find the right way to explain why he felt compelled to have the word 'Freak' inked on the back of his shoulders in ornate black Gothic script.

They're in a lavish hotel suite on the Cote d'Azur, provided by one Mycroft Holmes for Molly's stay at some boring medical conference or other. (She doesn't know for sure it was Mycroft who provided the mysterious 'special upgrade' and she doesn't ask. Smart woman.) Did his older brother know he'd be unable to resist the opportunity to visit her when they were coincidentally in the same country together? Rather sentimental of his big brother - uncharacteristically so - but Sherlock's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Well, he is, actually, but not this time. He has his Molly and a safe place to doss for a few days, and the fact that he has a few minor injuries for her to look at is just icing on the cake as far as he's concerned - one more group of minor thugs have given up their secrets, one more strand of the web has been removed.

He tries not to think about how many strands are left as he gropes for the best way to explain his newest work of art to Molly.

"I know what you're thinking, and no, it doesn't have anything to do with Sally Donovan. She's not the first person to call me that, and I doubt very much she'll be the last." His lips quirk in a grim smile. "Not to say that I haven't deserved that particular epithet, but in this case…"

"In this case," Molly interrupts him with a knowing glint in her eyes, "you've decided to own it. To bear it proudly. Because you  _are_ different to everyone else."

He gazes at her, momentarily speechless, full of admiration for the woman who sees him so clearly.

What the fuck took him so long to realize how perfect she is for him?

Idiocy, he decides as he pulls her into his arms for a breath-stealing kiss. Pure, unadulterated idiocy.

Mycroft is right; he  _is_ the smart one.

Well. Maybe he wouldn't go  _that_ far.

He wants to take her to bed immediately, right that minute, but of course she resists. Fusses over him. Disinfects and bandages him (she brought supplies, not in expectation but 'just in case', probably at a discreet rumor from Unknown Sources), murmurs unhappily over his bruises, brushes the softest of kisses against his shoulder once she's satisfied. When she protests further - "You don't want to bleed through the bandages, Sherlock!" - he huffs out a "Fine" and promises to keep off his back.

"That does  _not_ ," he adds with a certain glint in his eyes as she backs warily away from his advancing form, "apply to you." She gives a little shriek of laughter as he chases her into the largest of the two bedrooms, slamming the door shut with one foot as he mock-wrestles her out of her clothing.

They're both naked and he's lying on top of her in the darkened room, kissing her breathless and running his hands over her breasts when he feels it. His breath hitches, his thumb gliding over the small patch of slightly dry skin on the side of her left breast, over and over, and Molly stills beneath him.

"Do you...want to see?" she asks quietly. Hesitantly. As if worried about his reaction.

"Yes."

Without another word he kneels up, allowing her to roll to her side and grope for the bedside lamp. In the warm yellow glow he studies it: not a butterfly or a rose or even a skull, but a small wooden coffin. Very traditional, very plain, except for the glint of gold that makes up the miniscule nameplate.

Only it isn't a name he sees, but instead three little words.

Three little words that make his breath catch and his heart stutter in his chest. "Molly?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" She sounds subdued, nervous, but there's something else, something he can't quite put his finger on, can't read in her expression or deduce.

"Why a coffin? Why that particular combination?"

All thoughts of lovemaking have fled, but neither moves to put their clothes back on. Molly does pull the edge of the comforter over her lap, but leaves her breasts - and the new tattoo - bare to his view.

"Before I tell you, do you mind telling me what  _you_ think it means?"

"The death of your expectations," he says immediately, throat tight and a stinging at the corners of his eyes he resolutely ignores. "Resignation, acknowledgement that you don't expect me to ever say those words to you...it's a bit cruel not to have told me about it first, Molly." He hears the bitterness in his own voice but does nothing to tamp it down. "I thought you knew me better than that. I told you when we started all this that it wasn't just sex, or don't you remember?"

"I remember everything you said, Sherlock," she replies, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on his. "And I remember things you didn't say, too. But this isn't about that, it's about  _me_.  _My_ feelings. I just wanted you to know that nothing will change how I feel about you, about us, even if there isn't an 'us' after you finish taking down Moriarty's network and come back home." She offers him a sad smile. "Not even death could change how I feel about you, Sherlock. Not death, not if I, I married another man or you decided we'd be better off as friends…"

He silences her with a desperate kiss, lunging forward, hauling her into his lap and kissing her over and over again until finally she rests her hands on his shoulders, considerate as always of his injuries. "Tell me how you feel about me," he demands, holding her by the arms and gazing intently into her eyes. "Don't dance around the words, not anymore, not after this." He flicks his eyes down toward her ink and then back up again. "Or do you want me to say it first? Do you need to hear it from me? Because the nameplates on the coffins aren't put there by the dead - they're put there by the living."

"Say it like you mean it," she whispers, tears pooling in her eyes. "No, sorry, I meant, only say it  _if_ you me-"

"I love you," he says, slowly, hesitantly. His breath hitches, catches, then steadies as he repeats the words more confidently. They aren't easy to say, even - no,  _especially_ \- when they're true. "I love you."

She lets out a slow breath, eyelashes fluttering and fingers tightening on his shoulders before once again meeting his gaze. "I love you," she replies, not bothering to wipe the tears trailing down her cheeks. "No matter what happens, I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

He makes no promises; neither of them can accurately predict what the future might bring. She's right to doubt him even if she doesn't actually speak those doubts aloud. Once he's able to return to London, to the life he left behind - to John, and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and all the rest - who's to say he won't...backslide? Question himself, feel regret? Push her away even if he doesn't mean to?

And who's to say she won't find someone else to love? Someone who won't bring chaos and danger into her life, a regular guy with a dog and Friday's at the pub and Sunday dinners with his parents?

He shudders at the thought. No. Molly doesn't want normal, she doesn't need boring and ordinary, or she'd never have been attracted to someone like him. Or someone like Jim Moriarty, for that matter. "Did you know there was something off about him?" he asks abruptly, finally ready to ask her about her ex not-her-boyfriend.

Her brow furrows and then clears. "You mean...Jim?" He nods and she lets out an exasperated huff of laughter. "Why now, Sherlock? I mean, we just told each other we love...and you bring up Jim Moriarty? Now? Wouldn't you rather…?" She gestures vaguely toward their naked bodies, half pulls the sheet away from her lap.

"No. I mean yes, I would but I just...I need to know. Did you know? Did you-" Ugh, he hates the word, but uses it anyway "Did you...sense something off about him? Before I so cleverly deduced him," he adds. Not bitterly, but with a touch of self-directed annoyance in his voice.

She starts to shake her head, then stops, her eyes going distant as she really  _thinks_ about the question. "Maybe?" she finally says, making it a question. "I mean, there were a few times when he would look at me like I was a puzzle to solve, but afterwards I just thought - well, he was probably thinking about  _you_ and didn't realize I could see him. Because as soon as he did he'd make some goofy joke, or kiss me -"

He tenses, then forces himself to relax, but it's too late. She noticed; of course she did. "You kissed him, then. While you were dating." His fingers itch to make air quotes but he restrains himself. Barely. But he knows she can hear it in his voice, the sudden thunderous deluge of jealousy he feels at the thought of anyone - but most especially  _him_ \- kissing his Molly. Touching her. "You had sex with him," he says. A statement, not a question.

She nods, makes as if to pull herself out of his arms, but he tightens his hold. "Stay," he murmurs, burying his face in her hair. He has no idea why suddenly he's so emotional - maybe admitting to his feelings was a bad idea after all? Mycroft would certainly think so; he can practically hear his brother's smug, placid voice saying  _Caring is not an advantage._

_Fuck off, Mykey,_  he thinks with an internal growl. Caring might not be an advantage, but he refuses to believe it's a weakness. Not when he has people like Molly Hooper - and John and Gavin - in his life.

And what difference does it make who Molly had sex with in the past? She's with him now, and he needs to make up for even bringing the subject up to her. And what better way to do so than by offering up a confession for an admission? "I slept with her. The Woman. Irene. And she's not actually dead."

Judging by the way Molly practically wrenches herself from his arms, he might have just made an even worse mistake than harassing her about her past sexual relations with Dear Jim. Shit. How do ordinary people manage to bumble through relationships with each other without going barking mad? How does John manage it, with his endless string of girlfriends? Or Lestrade, who manages to forgive his wife every time she cheats on him?

Then again, ordinary though those two men are, they aren't exactly the ideal examples for this particular subject. "I'm not still seeing her, I don't even know where she is, we only text sometimes," he scrambles to explain, watching helplessly as Molly jerks her arm out of his pleading grasp, rises to her feet and grabs her (plush, white, crest-embossed) dressing-gown from the hook on the back of the door.

Oh yes, he's royally fucked this up, all because he doesn't know when to keep his stupid mouth shut.

"I'm going to sleep in the other room," Molly says, her voice dangerously calm. "If you find a way to actually get your size elevens out of your mouth and talk to me like a rational person - which you pride yourself on being - you'll know where to find me. In the morning," she adds, whipping her head around to glare at him. "And not one second sooner."

She closes the door behind her, not slamming, but firmly. It's definitely not an invitation for him to follow, as confusing and contradictory as social cues between the sexes can often be. No, in this case, 'don't follow me' means exactly that and nothing more.

He spends the rest of the night in his Mind Palace, trying desperately to find some way to make things right again - and damning himself for being the freak so many people have always told him he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorrynotsorry for the cliffie, but the chapter was getting too long and, well, I'm evil. :) Anyhoo, the next chapter shouldn't be too much longer so there's that. Thank you as always for your lovely reviews, and a special thanks to lilsherlockian1975 for assuring me this chapter wasn't too Out There with its deliberate TFP refs.


	7. Freak Part 2

When he comes back to himself he’s surprised to realize he actually knows what he said wrong - and what to do about it.  _ He can be taught, _ he thinks sardonically as he rolls out of bed and heads for the room where Molly may or may not still be sleeping. It’s barely dawn, but it’s morning by all definitions of the term and thus he’s adhering to her rules.

He doesn’t bother knocking, too impatient to talk to her, but feels the wind knocked out of him at the sight her lying alone in the king-sized bed. She looks so small and helpless - vulnerable - that he immediately regrets barging in on her like this and starts to back out of the still-open door.

Too late; she stirs, blinks open her eyes, and stares at him as he dithers in the doorway. “Sherlock? Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” he replies, letting go of the doorknob and stepping tentatively back into the room. “Me.”

Molly slowly sits up, hugging her knees against her chest. “What do you mean?” she asks warily.

He takes another step into the room, dragging his fingers through his tangle of curls. “I’m wrong, Molly, in so many ways. Not just because of what I said last night - of how jealous I was of you and...Moriarty,” he manages to choke out, “but because I don’t know how to do this, any of it. I told John that girlfriends weren’t my area and I should have remembered that before I dragged you into any of this, before we had sex and I fucked up your life and I’m just...sorry. I know you’re not upset that I slept with Irene, or that I didn’t tell you she was alive, I know it’s because  I did it out of spite and jealousy and just blurted it out instead of reacting like the rational, logical man I present myself as…”

“Sherlock,” Molly says firmly, her body language relaxing as she releases her protective hold on her knees and instead sits back against the leather headboard, “come here.”

He scrambles to obey, almost leaping onto the bed, hesitating the briefest moment before sitting next to her. “I’m sorry,” Molly says at the same time he does.

He stares at her. “For what? You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you why I was upset,” she replies, her voice low but she’s holding his gaze steadily. “I did just what those idiots on the telly do, when they expect their boyfriends and husbands to know instantly what’s bothering them. I expected you to read my mind or something, which no matter how brilliant you, I know you can’t do. That. Read my mind,” she adds awkwardly, as if he might not be able to parse her meaning.

“If I could it would be incredibly useful and I doubt we’d be having this conversation,” Sherlock says, relaxing the minutest bit at seeing her as awkward and fumbling as he currently feels. “Because I’d have known right away what was wrong. But you don’t need to apologize, Molly, not ever. I’m the one going around telling everyone how clever I am, showing off and being all egotistical. All you’ve ever done is try to help me - all you’ve ever done,” he adds wonderingly, “is love me. All this time, and I took far too long to realize that was what it was. I treated you with indifference and took you for granted and for all that and more, I am so very, very sorry.”

“Forgiven,” she says, kissing him softly on the lips. She scrunches her nose and pulls her head away, covering her mouth with her hand. “Sorry, morning breath.”

“Bugger morning breath,” Sherlock declares, and kisses her again.

Kisses turn to something more; passion ignites as it so often does between the two of them. Sherlock struggles out of his pyjama pants and t-shirt, helps Molly shed her obscenely cheery yellow-and-pink striped oversized sleep shirt, and rolls her on top of him once they’re naked. He pulls her down for another kiss and groans against her lips as she wriggles herself into a more comfortable position, her knees on either side of his thighs, her delicious little pussy rubbing against his burgeoning erection.

She sighs and moans as he strokes his hands down her back and squeezes her bum; their kisses grow urgent, sloppy, until she abruptly pushes herself up so that she’s kneeling directly over him. She takes him in hand, stroking him into full hardness before moving the head of cock into her wet heat. With gasps and moans she sinks down onto him; he steadies her with his hands on her hips, guiding their movements until they find their rhythm.

He watches, hypnotized by the sight of her breasts bouncing, her head thrown back so that he can see the arch of her throat above that enticing sight, until the need to have her closer overpowers him. He tugs her down, not gently, and wraps his arms around her as their movements become harder, faster, more frenzied.

“God, Molly,” he moans as she plants wet, frantic kisses on his throat, his chin, his ear, anywhere she can reach. “So perfect, so fucking perfect…”

She comes hard, crying out and digging her nails into his shoulders, and he follows shortly after, falling deliriously over the same pleasure-cliff into satiation.

**oOo**

The last day of their Parisian getaway - Molly can’t abide when he calls it a sex holiday even though they both know that’s what it is - is spent alternately making love and gorging themselves on delectable sweets. Molly bemoans the state of her waistline between bites, and Sherlock obligingly points out that she’s likely only gained a pound or two, which leads to her throwing a pillow at his head, which he catches in both hands with a smirk, which leads to her wrestling him for control of it, which leads to more lovemaking right there on the sitting room floor.

But as night falls and they share a room-service meal of some sort of cream-drenched chicken and vegetable combination, the mood becomes sober and thoughtful, at least on Molly’s part.

Sherlock is determined to keep things light, but she’s not having any of it. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” she says.

“I’ll be as careful as I always am,” he replies, shoving his fork into the (really quite good) chicken. Before he can lift it to his mouth, she’s covered his hand with hers, holding him until he meets her gaze. “I’ll be careful,” he promises, leaning forward to kiss her softly on her downturned lips. 

She kisses him back and even manages a wan smile, but her eyes are still troubled. 

They make love one last time, and he waits until she falls asleep before he slips out of bed, dons his ratty jeans and hoodie and track shoes and fades away into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Be sure to check out my pinterest for this story, which is also a work in progress. :)  
> https://www.pinterest.com/mizjoely/sherlolly-fics/a-study-in-ink/


End file.
